3.02

The gleaming iridescence of the environmental shield flickered overhead, subtly marring the otherwise impressive view from the top of the observation tower. The same effect that made sensor readings unreliable in space applied; photons impacted the invisible, immaterial force-field and suffered inelastic scattering, losing energy when entering the shield, gaining energy when exiting it. From the outside, everything the environmental shield covered was visibly blue-shifted. From the inside, the raging snowstorm kept at bay by its presence was ever so slightly redder. Considering that local wind speed had just exceeded two hundred kilometers per hour and the temperature was hitting minus seventy, I wasn't going to complain.

"Here again, lady Andrim?" Somehow, Ratty managed to insert parental chastisement and fond exasperation in her electronic voice, over long-suffering undertones. She floated closer, her many limbs maneuvering gracefully as she delivered several bottles and packets on my table. "You should really be resting. Recovery after extensive damage to upwards of sixty percent of one's body mass is complicated, for an organic." I rolled my eyes at that acerbic remark, considering giving her a memory wipe for growing too uppity. Naah. Then I'd have to train her to respond to her nickname all over again.

"Is all that really necessary?" I said, glaring at the foulest-tasting organic syrup my droid tutor had deposited before me. In Arkania, biology was practically worshiped above all other sciences, and organic engineering was seen as its greatest application. And yet, as soon as I drank from the bottle I had to struggle against the strong urge to puke my guts out. "Eight hundred generations of mad scientists and their medicine still tastes like Bantha poodoo. Doctors, bah!"

"May I remind the Lady Andrim that this particular elixir is no common medicine but a catalyst for reverting neural plasticity to the levels of a toddler," a teenager with the white coat, close-cropped silver hair, and golden skin tone said as he exited the elevator and came into the observation level proper. Oh goody, there went the newest horror I had to endure; my very own personal nurse. I swear, the young man must be a Force-sensitive with how inconveniently he always timed his arrivals. "Without it, even bacta treatments would not have been able to regenerate your lost limbs - not functional ones in any case." He looked at the pale, almost silvery new skin that had grown along with my new arms, his eyes reaching the pointy, claw-like fingernails at the end of otherwise perfectly normal hand... and grimaced slightly. "Not to mention the two thousand credit cost per dose."

"You just did," I told him somewhat coolly. I didn't know his name; he hadn't offered. There was a reason for my dislike despite his fairly good looks, intelligent blue eyes, and apparently inexhaustible knowledge of medical matters. "Besides, didn't my recovery progress faster than prior data indicates the drug should work? It couldn't have been due to it," I finished smugly as I felt the foul taste clogging my mouth and oozing down my throat. A bit of focus that had almost become reflex after months of treatment let me follow the foulness down, gently pushing it onwards faster than it would normally be absorbed, coax strained tissues into absorbing it faster, shifted probability so my body's reaction was abnormally positive but still technically within the realms of the possible. Try to get your medical know-how to explain that, you overbearing racialist xenophobe!

"This is precisely why observation is warranted," he shot back. "You are consistently responding over six standard deviations better than average to all therapies for no apparent reason. Since your particular situation is uncommon," translation; few people have previously survived exploding gunships to the face "and given your own genetic peculiarities" translation: being the deliberately designed offspring of an Arkanian off-shot and a Kuati noble just isn't done "it might indicate unknown problems in your future."

"Oh, I don't doubt that." After all, being force-sensitive during the rise of Darth Sidious was a hell of a problem. "I'm just wondering why medicine has to taste foul. Ah, never mind. Is there something, in particular, you wanted me for?" Yes, yes there was. I was practically fidgeting in anticipation, had been since his arrival. Unfortunately, there were other things to get over with first.

"Just the routine check on your electrosimulation suit," he said while poring over a beeping datapad as my thick white whole-body suit gave answering beeps. "You're seventy-two percent through the latest endurance adaptation and fifty-six percent through the rapid response package." He frowned prettily, pressed in several commands that shifted the patterns of electrical jolts I'd been feeling all over my body in the past hour, then frowned some more. "Are you planning on trying your luck in the racing circuits? Because if you are, it is my duty as a doctor to inform you of certain facts, young one." He pointed at my neck with his off-hand where the bodysuit gave way to the bare skin at the base of my jaw. "Arkanian science can condition muscles and nerves to function beyond normal limits. We have developed programs for ace pilots, bodyguards, and gladiators even. But swoop racing demands reactions faster than conscious thought even for quicker-than-human species, and thus actual experience with individual racing circuits. And the brain is not something that can be conditioned by wearing a suit."

"Somehow, I think I'll manage," I shot back drily. If it weren't for the Force informing me his obvious worry had more to do with the experiments being wasted and Father's displeasure, I might have begun to believe he cared for my well-being. The sudden wave of unease though not quite alarming that struck me for no apparent reason also warned me there was more unpleasantness in the immediate future than a stifling, sticky, too-hot suit that basically electrocuted me for medical reasons. "If that was all... but it isn't, is it? Let me guess; the eggheads in lab seven want to try another synthetic 'stimulant'. Don't bother; I can already tell they got it wrong again."

"You know, this whole procedure would be far more pleasant if you were a bit less arbitrarily contrary." From his scowl and the surge of emotion that followed, my response had broken through his mask of detached, professional interest to the annoyance and impatience underneath. "Not only have you regained your limbs - something no facility outside Arkania could have managed - but we are also furthering the boundaries of scientific knowledge here." He picked up half a dozen vials Ratty had brought in and quickly attached them to their respective slots in my suit's back with jerky, nearly angry motions. "Then again, you are what you are. And twelve."

"Fourteenth in three months, actually. My, an aspiring biologist with no attention to detail. I must warn Father to prepare against accidentally released plagues." I paid for that succinct retort when my suit gave a long and sharp warning beep before countless micro-needles delivered the vials' contents into my bloodstream; it felt almost like burning alive. That I now had the experience to make that comparison informed was kind of sad. Under the pain, I felt a trickle of life spreading through my veins, a pale light in my mind's eye that pushed final recovery ahead of schedule... but only a trickle.

"Result marginal," Mr. I-am-pureblood-Arkanian-while-you're-just-an-offshot muttered as he read the results in his datapad. I would have snorted if I could have. As it was, I was too busy catching my breath while my heart thundered in my chest and milky tears dripped down milky-white eyes. Yet another thing that had changed in months of tissue regrowth and genetic therapy. At least I still had only five fingers per hand and glossy black hair, as I'd been born with. Or rather, as the original Astra had.

"Progress, ho," I managed through gritted teeth. At least this batch hadn't caused an allergic reaction. Now he only had to give me what he was sent here for, so I could kick his ass out. Father had booked the entire top three floors for my stay in the facility, and for once I wanted to exert the privileges we'd paid for.

"Oh, yes... I nearly forgot." The white-haired nurse patted his pockets rather awkwardly, his lab coat having too many of them for comfort, before depositing a single black brick on the table, a rectangle of some black ceramic that hit with a dull thud. "Your Father sent another shipment in long-term storage. Half will go towards extensive testing and R&D as per the agreement, but this is for you."

He was gone before I could recover enough to reply, of course. Rolling my eyes at the whole mess of a situation, I placed the Carbonite brick in a plate previously occupied by a bright green and purple salad with a sweet and sour sauce and what paused for almonds in this part of the Star Wars galaxy. One button press later and the Carbonite was melting away to reveal a sealed silvery vial. Popping it open fast enough to send the cap flying, I downed the contents in one gulp. Bright light flowed through me, practically exploding in a wave that infused every corner of my being. Unlike the failed synthetic from the Arkanian labs that were barely better than Bacta, the infusion of vitality and power was palpable. It felt both like the best drug in the world and the sense of heightened energy after a month's vacation in a hideously expensive resort. That I didn't have to pull the energy in myself while floating in a healing tank and slowly recovering from the loss of multiple organs made it even better.

"Decryption complete," Ratty announced as painfully heightened senses slowly returned to normal, the entirety of the illegal medical facility slipping from my awareness. "Archives on experiment AJ3997-001 accessed. Data reconstitution on regeneration and enhancement treatments 101 through 507 in progress."

"Excellent work, Ratty." Having a nanny droid with access to the latest Bothan infiltration programs volunteer to be my caretaker was a stroke of genius on Father's part; after our misadventures, he was not about to trust his extended Arkanian family and contacts, not when their Kuati counterparts might have had a hand in the assassination attempt against me. With any luck, I could read up on what exactly they were doing to me while finishing the latest electrostimulation treatments.

It wasn't as if I had anything else to do while waiting for Father's return.